rowan ...|... outfit ........ valenya ...|... outfit ........ declan ...|... outfit ........ dorian ...|... outfit ........ maeve ...|... outfit ........ rhea ...|... outfit ........ the great hall
The halls of the Black Citadel were eerily silent as Rhea navigated the labyrinth of corridors toward the sitting room. She was expected near the Great Hall at sundown, but judging by the warm shades of amber that spilled across the stone floor from the large windows… She was late. While there was a budding unease at her mother’s disdain, it truly was her fault. She chose a ridiculous gown that had at least two skirts too many, each one needing to be fastened differently and at the correct height so it all poofed out just so, allowing a small hint of navy blue to peek out beneath the top layer of ivory satin. But not too much. Gods forbid if the proper ratio of blue to ivory was skewed. Chaste, pure, virginal, her mother’s words rang in her ears with that judgemental tone, like a lie she was trying to convince herself of rather than the truth.
"I feel like a doll," Rhea huffed as she adjusted the skirts… again. Gods they were so heavy. If she had the misfortune of falling into water she was almost certain she’d sink straight to the bottom like an anchor. Perhaps that was her mother’s goal, a metaphorical shackle to keep her still, weighed down by burden and expectations to behave. As if she had done anything but behave over the past two years. "And not even a cute one," she added with a scoff and a dramatic kick from beneath the skirts that barely caused a ripple through the sea of fabric.
"I look like one of those haunting porcelain faced dolls Maeve had." They were the type of dolls that were hard and cold, painted for display, too fragile to be cherished. They weren’t made to be enjoyed or shown love, but appreciated from afar… Trophies not playthings. That’s all Princesses were… prizes to whomever could pay the highest price. That was what Maeve wanted, not to just be a trophy, but the trophy, a beautiful porcelain doll on display like a rare gem everyone wanted but only one possessed. But that wasn’t Rhea, she didn’t want to be made of glass but cloth, worn and weathered, not fragile but malleable. Every popped seam, tear or stain would be a memory of being loved and treasured. She didn’t want to be out of reach on a shelf, but embraced. This gown… this charade, it wasn’t her. She was made of cotton, not clay.
"It is only for the night, Princess." Coren’s voice was gentle and reassuring like a hand upon her shoulder. It cut through echoes of ruffling fabric that pooled around her feet and the rhythmic clinking of his dark plate armor. He followed in pace behind her, ever watchful and present, even when she forgot she wasn’t alone and complained into the dense humid air because… It was the only thing within her power that she could do.
Rhea spun around to face him, the length of her skirts spinning outward with the momentum, extending so far they brushed his knees. "Until the tourney," she contradicted, holding out a single finger as if counting. "Or the Day of the Gods—" another finger shot up "—Or any other celebration my mother chooses to throw." With the third finger raised, she wiggled them before Coren until tripping on the abundance of fabric forced her to turn back around with a huff. How would she make it through an evening of dancing without falling on her face? She hadn’t a clue. "Perhaps I’ll be fortunate and catch no one’s eye, then I can dress as I please."
Coren’s brows rose like a silent challenge, as if he knew the conclusions she’d come to a second faster than she did. "Is that what you wish?"
She paused a few feet from the door, letting her head tip backwards with an exasperated sigh. "... No" Rhea needed a husband to get out of the Black Citadel and as far away from her mother as possible. She had love once and lost it. As unlikely as that was in the first place, she knew it was impossible to find it a second time. It was no longer about love, but an escape. Her fabric doll dreams died with Gareth, buried away with that last thread. All that was left was a porcelain face painted beneath her mother’s scrutiny, sewn in place over the remnants of what was. "Stop being so wise. You make it difficult for me to complain to you." A smile, forlorn but earnest, dipped into her cheeks in an attempt to match the levity of her tone.
"Apologies, Your Grace." Coren chuckled, just once, fleeting but warm as he approached the door at the end of the hall and took the handle in his hand. "I shall be in the Great Hall if you need me, Princess." He bowed before pulling open the door, revealing the quaint sitting room and her sister, poised and punctual, a trophy ready for the victor.
Maeve was on the far side of the room, standing before a mirror of polished silver as she fussed over her appearance. To Rhea’s eyes, her sister was the definition of what perfection strove to be. Her gowns were always immaculate, posture straight as a pin, hair a silken nest of crimson braids with her face painted like the very dolls she desired to be. Where Rhea’s dress was a curtain of ivory, almost childlike in its innocence, Maeve was dressed as a woman should be, pristine in every way that mattered, a Goddess personified for the Lords to feast their eyes upon. There was no way she could compete with her sister, the rose of Thornvale. She was everything a Princess was supposed to be. It was no wonder her mother always compared them, always wished more of her as she lived in her sister’s shadow. How could she ever compare?
"Sister," Rhea spoke up as the door shut behind her, dipping into a courtesy that wasn’t quite right but she knew her sister would expect it all the same, just as their mother would. "You look lovely," she added with a warm smile, like an olive branch of sisterly compassion extended over a ravine of differences.
Maeve’s hands were running along the rich silks of her skirts, willing any wrinkles from taking up residence when she heard her sister enter the room. She froze, head perking like a curious animal surprised to be met with her sister being almost punctual. With a raised brow and a scrutinizing gaze, her attention swept over Rhea’s ensemble as she lingered on the other side of the room. It was a blatant show of white purity, tight and conforming in the ways she knew were more like a prison rather than a show of familial solidarity. Delicate fingers tugged on the hem of her corset as if it was a hair askew, then pressed her palm against her abdomen like a practiced measure in breath control and aplomb.
"Did mother dress you?" she asked. Her hands continued to preen and press her gown just so, as if her own adjustments could somehow will her sister to do the same. Maeve’s gaze narrowed as she noticed the misalignment of Rhea’s skirts, the way her tiara tilted a bit more to the left, and how her corset could have been tighter… much tighter. Her sister’s hair was not perfectly pinned, but fell free in loose ringlets along her shoulders, a testament to their stark differences. One sister the image of grace and poise, everything in place where it should be, while the other was wild, untamed, looking formality in the face with a laugh.
Rhea’s shoulders, which were hopefully raised, slumped as the olive branch was snapped in two and fell into the chasm between them. She didn’t answer the question. There was no point when her sister already knew the answer and merely sought to widen the divide between them. Her own hand pressed against her stomach, but where Maeve’s was a habit of control, Rhea’s touch was like a claw desperate to rip the fabric from her body, if only to be able to breathe. "Have they all arrived?" she asked, redirecting the conversation as she crossed the room toward the large windows that looked out over the valley. She grabbed handfuls of fabric, lifting her skirts just high enough so she could kneel on the window seat without choking herself in the process.
Maeve watched with disdain, unable to withhold the sharp breath drawn from her at the thought of wrinkled silks. The sight alone was enough to make her smooth out her own gown, obsessive in her own perfection. "I have not been counting," she answered, curt in her passiveness… Also a lie. She did not look out the window or gawk, but had been listening to the creeks of approaching carriages, the procession of steps, and voices echoing up from the hall below. "Get away from there," she snapped, motioning her sister away from the window. "What if someone sees you?"
"What if they do?" Rhea sank onto the bench, unbothered by her sister's concerns or by her knees pressing into the wood through the thin cushion as she leaned forward at the site of a carriage crossing the bridge toward the entrance. "They all will know us soon enough." She watched curiously, as if it was a game to try and piece together which house was hidden beneath the shadows of the setting sun. They flew no colors, nor did their approach have much showmanship like she’d imagine from most of the houses. She assumed the entirety of the family would have ridden in the carriage until she caught sight of a black steed with a young man seated atop it. He was dressed in finery nearly as dark as the horse beneath him, likely decorated in colors and sigils of his house, but she couldn’t make it out from where she sat. He carried himself with the same air as her sister, chin held high with a posture of purpose, more erect and confident in his presence than anything Rhea ever did. Whomever he was, she was certain he and Maeve would make a good match. They could stand around their hold like statues, looking down their noses at those beneath them. "I think I found your future husband," she mused with a quiet chuckle.
While intrigue tugged at Maeve like an invisible thread, drawing her toward the window to peek and see if she could place a name to the face, she did not move. She knew her sister was baiting her to go look or show a childlike interest, but she knew better… She was better than naive curiosity. "He very well could be," she replied plainly. "I imagine our tastes differ quite substantially. If he doesn’t appeal to you then I imagine we’d be a smart match."
"Well, there are certainly similarities."
"Like what? Elegance?"
"... Rigidity," Rhea answered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as she kept her amusement hidden between herself and the pane of glass before her.
Maeve snorted and rolled her eyes. "You mean poise," she corrected as if the mere concept of being seen as rigid was deplorable and absolutely false.
Rhea shook her head and rolled her eyes, disregarding her sister’s comment as she leaned forward and rested her hands against the window’s frame. She watched as the carriage, mounted Lord, and their retinue entered the gates, coming to a halt in the stone courtyard outside the Citadel. They were all cast in heavy shadows, haloed by the golden glow of eventide like an omen of the months to come… Whether for good or ill, she did not know. The way the darkness clung to the man, even in the warmth of the setting sun and the flickering light of the braziers, filled her with a foreboding sense of dread that constricted around her lungs tighter than the corset already entrapping her.
He dismounted with the effortless ease of a man who found riding a horse to be an extension of himself, something Rhea often saw amongst warriors, not nobles. Another point for Maeve. She knew her sister valued strength, real and tangible, not through words—she had that part covered—but through muscles, presence, and purpose. He wore a blade at his hip as if a show of power or readiness, perhaps both. It could have been ornamental or ceremonial, but something about the way the Lord carried himself said he knew how to wield it with brutal efficiency. She might not be privy to her sister’s ‘list’, but if this man was not at the top, then he rightfully should be. Afterall, Maeve didn’t want love or compassion, she wanted protection, power, and—
There was a shift. It was subtle, missable by most who saw horses as tools. He did not turn from his dark steed but toward it, placing a hand upon the creature’s neck not in dominance but companionship. It wasn’t a stroke, but the grounding comfort of a presence. An act so human that it almost felt foreign in comparison to the way he carried himself. Rhea watched as the horse leaned into the touch, a sign of quiet respect and understanding. The Lord’s sharp edges softened in a way only she would notice. Not all cold. Good. Her and Maeve might not see eye to eye on many things, but she did not wish a life of misery upon her sister. A man capable of kindness towards creatures was capable of compassion, something her sister solely needed, even if she did not see it herself.
The creak of the carriage door drew his attention and hers alike. Rhea watched the first Lady take his arm and exit. A woman with hair as red as a fox, adorned in a gown of rich crimson and ivory. She was followed by another, younger woman, similar in every way down to the colors of their garments. Red and white. Rhea did not familiarize herself with the various houses and their sigils like Maeve. She knew enough to recognize they were house colors, similar to how their mother had them dressed in navy, ivory and silver. It was a show of family, unity and power.
Rhea tried to think back to her childhood education, recalling banners of red and white adorned in… A wolf? A lion?... No. A bear. The moment the realization struck, the two final Lords stepped out. The elder emerged austere and fierce, demanding respect through the scrutiny of his gaze and was followed by a familiar mess of red curls—Emil. Rhea paled, drawing in a sharp breath and pulled away from the window like the glass had burned her. She knew she couldn’t avoid him or the consequences of her actions forever, but there was a part of her that had hoped the insult of her insolence would have frightened him away. But there was no escaping it now, not when her mother knew and she had to face him in court.
"What?" Maeve asked, masquerading her piqued curiosity as feigned concern.
The click of the door unlatching and swinging open sliced through the tension of the room and pulled the girls’ attention toward the entrance. In strode Dorian, always tardy and always disheveled. He wore an ivory tunic embroidered in gold and silver with his navy coat draped over his arm and an ornate belt clutched in his hand. His brown locks fell in wild ringlets, still a bit damp, as they brushed the tops of his shoulders. He was no more pleased to be there than Rhea looked: uncomfortable, out of place, and like someone just walked over her grave. But nevertheless, he flashed them both a warm smile, pleased at their presence, knowing he wouldn’t suffer through it all alone, if nothing else.
"Evening, sisters," he said with his usual jovial tone—loud, warm, and laced with honey—contradicting his otherwise chaotic presence.
One of Rhea’s legs slipped from the window seat, followed by the other as she turned from the spectacle and stood up. She gave her brother a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before turning her attention toward Maeve. "It is House Járnbjørn," she answered the question indirectly, offering up her conclusions without bringing attention to her inner turmoil that left her uneasy and on edge.
"And how would you know that?" Maeve’s words came out sharp, almost insulting in the insinuation that Rhea was too oblivious, ignorant or stupid to know which house was which from a glance. There was one way and one way only that she knew the Járnbjørns apart from the rest. Another dark mark against the Storvane name—against her—because of the ignorance of her siblings.
"Don’t play coy," Rhea snapped, in no mood to trade thinly veiled insults or play into her sister’s mind games.
Dorian’s brows furrowed, glancing back and forth between them as he pulled on his navy velvet jacket and shrugged it into place upon his shoulders. Whenever his sister’s got like that he always struggled to follow. It wasn’t that he was dense, but he never mastered the silent language of sharp glances and hidden barbs that women were so fluent in. He found women, especially nobles, could carry entire conversations layered with meaning without ever speaking a word. He was just… too simple for that.
"What are you two conspiring about?" he interjected with a weary laugh, not wishing to feel excluded from the conversation but, more importantly, wanting to keep his sisters from arguing when they were minutes from being put on display before the most influential people in the kingdom. Dorian paused, cocking his head to the side, caught off guard by his own thoughts and concerns that almost aligned with what a Prince and heir should be concerned about. He snorted and shook his head. Declan must have hit him too hard and knocked some sense into him… Nothing some wine couldn’t fix.
"Nothing," Rhea replied, turning her attention toward him with her arms crossed lightly over her chest. Her thumb idly rubbed along her arm beneath the hem of her sleeve, saving herself from the incessant itching of the sheer fabric for a moment. "Maeve is playing chess and I, checkers." She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes in that resigned way a sibling accepted their torment.
"I never had a mind for chess," Dorian chuckled as he grabbed his ornate belt and wrapped it around his waist. It all started well enough, but the buckle proved to either be a new design or maybe he never fastened his own belts before? No, that would be nonsense. Of course he could dress himself… Right? His face contorted, gaze fixated on a small bit of embroidery on the seat in front of him. He could certainly recall undressing people plenty of times—and them undressing him—but he honest to the Gods could not remember if he ever dealt with belts. "When did buckles become so complicated?"
"And yet, you are heir," Maeve scoffed with a shake of her head as she turned her attention back towards the polished silver. Not only was he a lost cause when it came to dressing himself, but he lacked the mental fortitude for chess… A game based around the politics of war. That wasn’t a terrible omen for the future of Aethoria or anything. Her hands ran along the bodice of her dress as she stared at the reflection of blue fabric beneath her fingers. If she were but a man this never would happen. Declan was mad for stepping down and now the entirety of the Ninefold would suffer the consequences. She didn’t know what she wanted more, for her brother to step up and be the heir the kingdom needed… Or a husband with a conqueror’s mind and a warrior’s blade.
Rhea smiled, patient and warm as she crossed the room to her brother. Delicate fingers reached out, stealing the belt from his grasp. "Ignore her. I do," she mused softly for only their ears with a mischievous smile and a glint behind her eyes. One hand held the belt loose but steady around his waist, while her other hand straightened his tunic and jacket. When everything was as straight as possible she clasped the belt snug against his stomach and patted his chest. "There."
"Bless you." Dorian took her face in his hands. He cupped her cheeks tenderly and placed a kiss upon her forehead, dramatic with a noisy smack, but sincere in his gratitude.
She laughed softly and shook her head when his wild, unruly curls brushed her face and tickled her nose. Rhea pulled back with knitted brows and a playful sneer, then flicked one of his curls out of his face. "What is this hair?"
Dorian’s smile turned guilty and almost bashful. "I could not get it to cooperate." He pulled a small leather tie from his pocket and held it up between them, pinching it between a finger and his thumb. He slowly spun it like a silent question he already knew the answer to.
She sighed and shook her head, before reaching out and taking the small bit of leather. She could have told him no, of course, but Rhea was not the type of person to make her brother suffer through their mother’s wrath when she could help. While he used his sarcasm as armor, he often needed a gentle touch and understanding that no one gave him but her. People like their mother and Maeve often said her help was doing more harm than good, and he needed to struggle through life to find his footing, but Dorian and her were both black sheep in their own rights. It was something that connected them in ways others wouldn’t understand. In the end, he’d help her if she needed it, so she did the same… often with a huff and an eye roll, but love as well.
"You are too tall," she replied, nodding her head toward the chair beside them. "Sit." Once Dorian lowered himself onto the cushion beside her, she walked around to the back of the chair. "Here. Hold this," Rhea leaned forward, extending her arm over his shoulder so he could take the piece of leather. She then started running her fingers back through his dark hair, gently guiding the locks out of his face, being careful not to diffuse the prominent ringlets. The Storvane’s were known for their curls, especially her brothers, and while Maeve might try to tame them, Rhea found beauty in their wildness. So if the decision was hers—which it was—she intended to leave them untouched. Controlled chaos, like Dorian himself.
"Where is your valet? Should he not have handled this?" she asked as she started gathering the curls one by one.
A laugh, shrill and sardonic, cut through the quiet peace of the room as Maeve glanced over her shoulder toward them. "Did you not hear?" she mused, cocking her head as she finally stepped away from the mirror to give them her full attention. "Dorian lost another valet due to his incessant advances." Her gaze shifted from Rhea down to Dorian, a silent challenge daring him to tell her she was wrong... She never was.
Dorian sighed and started to slouch, but Rhea quickly stopped him with a "Ah ah," and a light tug against his hair.
"I would have stopped if he said he was not interested…" he grumbled, not meeting Maeve’s judgmental gaze. "I’m not a complete ass."
"And who would say no to a Prince?" Maeve asked, resting her hands on her hips in a way that was almost identical to their mother. The similarities were uncanny… The perfect posture, sharp eyes, and discerning tone. "You missed a curl."
Rhea scoffed, leaving that single dark spiral precisely where it laid along Dorian’s temple, like a subtle act of defiance. "That was intentional." With his hair held in place, she reached back over his shoulder to retrieve the piece of leather he held ready for her, then began tying back the top half of his hair, letting the remaining curls fall freely to his shoulders.
"Mother will want him perfect,"
Maeve took a step closer, reaching out with the intention to snag the stray curl, but Rhea smacked her hand away before she messed up her hard work. "But he is not perfect." Her fingers gently fastened the leather into a knot and tucked the tails beneath his hair. "Why force him to be something he’s not?" she asked as her hands fell to rest upon his shoulders and give him a reassuring squeeze. The entire Kingdom knew what Dorian was and what he was like, forcing him to be anything other than himself was more of an insult to their guests. They wouldn’t fool anyone by lying. Even Rhea was aware that her own truth would only remain hidden for so long. Secrets didn’t stay secret long in the Black Citadel… The less they had, the better.
"Perfect is—" Boring, he was going to say boring. "Far better suited for you, Maeve, than either of us." Dorian tilted his head back just enough to flash her a playful wink, to which she promptly shook her head and rolled her eyes disparagingly.
"If we are expected to marry someone beyond that door, should we not lead with authenticity?" Rhea asked with a curious tilt of her head.
"And those clothes are authentic?" Maeve rebutted as she reached out and pinched the sheer sleeve to her sister’s dress between her fingers. The gown was far more elegant than anything in Rhea’s wardrobe, perhaps a bit juvenile, but it was obvious their mother had it made from the same material as her own dress, not leaving anything to chance. And while Maeve agreed with their mother’s approach, she couldn’t help but find it comical that her siblings were preaching authenticity while being dressed and puppeted around like dolls. She supposed their rebellion and genuinity only went so far.
Dorian pushed off the chair’s armrests and stood up. "Mother always gets what she wants." He reached over, gently taking Maeve by the wrist and removing her hold. It wasn’t forceful, but had an unspoken warning. His sister might have taken after their mother and adopted more of her qualities day by day, but just because they tolerated it from their mother did not mean she got the same leniency. Sister or not, when the barbs cut too deep, familial bonds no longer mattered.
"We hold onto ourselves where we can…" Rhea filled the silence, far more warm and patient than her brother. "Be that a loose curl or a bit of frayed thread." Her hands fell to rest upon the top of the chair, tapping the carved wooden frame that hugged the embroidered cushion. Unlike Dorian, she had grown so accustomed to their mother’s wrath that Maeve’s sharp comments were little more than an irritant, like bugs biting at her ankles on a humid day. It may have been naive, but she believed her sister still had love for them like she did as a child, even if it was buried beneath the burden of duty and nobility.
Dorian placed a hand upon her shoulder, reassuring in its warmth and tenderness. They shared a glance that spoke truths too fragile to say out loud, a silent understanding behind a piece of thread, their failures, and a prison they both shared.
Maeve’s gaze fell to Rhea’s left hand, noting the small indentation where the thread once lived, pale but bare. So… She had done it. She didn’t know if she should be impressed at her sister’s resilience, relieved that there was one more black mark against their family buried, or infuriated that it took Rhea years to be obedient, far past the point of redemption when the damage was already done. "Are you both so daft to think your actions do not also reflect upon me?" she snapped, words frayed at the end like her patience and that damn forgotten piece of thread her sister had clung onto for far too long.
"Do not fret, dear sister." Dorian’s words were laced with exaggerated sarcasm as he gently patted her shoulder while walking past. "You have more perfection in your little finger than Rhea and I do together." He stopped in front of the mirror to check Rhea’s work, lips curving downward into a half-impressed smile at the sight of himself staring back at him. For once he looked like a Prince… and a piece of himself still existed beneath the finery.
"Our inadequacies shall bolster your image. Your pool of suitors will be plentiful, where I shall survive off the remnants," Rhea mused, her words sounding more like poetry and less like reassurances, but even behind her thinly veiled jest, there was also truth. "I promise I will not get in your way." Her words fell softer, with a grave sincerity that she rarely revealed to her sister. The last thing she wanted was to stand in Maeve's way of happiness, but she was also pragmatic and knew that her sister had more to offer a man than she ever could. There was no contest, and strangely enough, she was not bothered by that.
The confession caught Maeve off guard. There was some semblance of gratitude… somewhere, but rather than respond with warmth or recognition or—Gods forbid—compassion, she gave a curt nod accented with her usual sharp edged words. "Good. You had your chance and squandered it. This is my opportunity."
Rhea wasn’t able to withhold the scoff that cut through the room, severing the small tether of understanding between them. She said nothing, didn’t take the bait or slip back into a match of barbs and wit. She simply pushed off the chair and walked back over to the window, preferring to watch the sunset or more Lords arriving than be near her incorrigible sister.
"Well, actually—" Dorian started, prepared to meet their sister’s attitude where she left it, with the truth… That this was more about him than it ever was about her. Really knock her off her high horse, if only for a moment. But the door creaked and opened, halting whatever argument was likely to brew.
Stepping into the room was the Queen, their mother, adorned in an ornate gown of ivory and navy blue that matched her daughters with a mature, timeless elegance that heightened her beauty, demanding respect and awe. Her dark hair was pin straight, cascading down her back and topped with an elaborate silver tiara encrusted with sparkling diamonds and sapphires. She carried herself with a powerful grace, expecting the world to bow and yield at her feet like it was she, not her husband, who had the Ninefold at her fingertips.
Following behind her with a hand leisurely resting upon the small of her back and a gait that wasn’t molded by nobility but by the labor of his back and sweat of his brow, was the King, their father. He may have looked the part, dressed in blue velvet, golden brocade and ivory, but he carried himself like any other man, a father and a warrior, with the weight of the world slowing his stride but not dimming his smile. Where the Queen was cold and hard like metal in the moonlight, he was warm and effervescent like the sunlight reflected off the Weave.
He walked in with a smile upon his face, a light behind his eyes and his arms extending toward his children as his true source of happiness. "Ah, my beautiful family."
The King made his way toward Dorian first, grinning nearly ear to ear as he clapped his son on the shoulders. It was not a hug, but an embrace man to man, strong and reassuring through the firm comfort of his fingers that resonated through the young man. He then moved to Maeve, cupping her face as if she was made of the most delicate crystal, placing a loving kiss upon her forehead, a warmth that was a stark contrast to the woman receiving it. Lastly, Rhea, who closed the distance to him before he had a chance to come to her and wrapped her arms around him tight like a child hugging their parent without a care for decorum, just wanting the comfort of her father. A jovial laugh rumbled in his chest where she rested her cheek and his arms curled around her, tight and affectionate. His hand cradled the back of her head as his kiss was lost in the ripples of crimson curls.
The Queen followed behind, rectifying every imperfection as she passed. She adjusted Dorian’s belt and tunic before tucking the loose curl back behind his ear, only for it to immediately slip free in defiance. Then she moved to Rhea, waiting for the embrace to cease so she could size up her appearance with a scrutiny reserved only for her. She centered the tiara upon her daughter’s head, calmed wild hairs that tried to break free, and tugged on the hem of the corset, shifting how it laid. "Could be tighter, but there is no time to re-lace it. Unfortunate." She sighed, disapprovingly, before her attention shifted toward Maeve and… she smiled.
It was a sight so genuine, so rare, that Dorian and Rhea exchanged brief glances of disbelief at the open display. They watched, silent with the unspoken weight of longing for a piece of that warmth to be for them. Had they ever made their mother smile like that, even as children? Neither of them could recall. Any memories of happiness or warmth were replaced with heavy expectations, harsh criticisms, and sharp words that cut deep and festered. Neither one of them could watch, turning their gazes towards each other, their father, the window… anything.
"Well… it will suffice. At least Maeve understands the gravity of this moment." The Queen did not adjust or fix a single piece of Maeve. Her pride and joy was nothing short of elegant perfection, a vision of herself as a younger woman looking back at her. While the desire to embrace was there, the women only clasped hands, not wanting to risk dishevelling their appearances in any way. Affection could wait until the night was over, when they join in shared celebration of the unions to come. They were patient. They could wait.
"Come now, my love," the King protested as an arm hooked around Dorian’s shoulders, pulling him close before doing the same with Rhea. His actions spoke louder than words, a quiet recognition of his wife’s favoritism. Where her love fell short, he filled in the gaps with his radiant warmth and compassion. "No one will be able to hold a flame to our children—" His smile broke, brows tensing as his gaze searched the room for an absence that stole the light and left the gathering feeling empty. "Where is Declan?"
The door on the opposite side of the room opened, letting in a flood of voices that echoed up the grand staircase. Lord Dunstan Farraday entered, dressed in his finest scholarly robes saved for such occasions. He was a pillar of slate and steel. The shimmering gray satin exuded elegance against the grounding simplicity of his pewter wool overcoat. A soft rustling of fabric contrasted the metallic jingle of his chains followed him as he entered the room and bowed. "Your Grace, all of the Lords have gathered in the Great Hall and are ready for your arrival."
"Where is Declan?" The King asked a second time, knowing his Uncle would have the answer where the rest of his family did not.
"He is in the Hall with the rest of the guard."
"Send for him."
The Queen spoke up, her voice filling the small room with her impatient and sharp edged tone. "My love, I do not believe—"
"Prince or not, Declan is a Storvane and my son," the King interjected, not in the mood to humor her arguments or disapproval. His voice had lost its warmth and casual lilt for something more serious and commanding, a King’s tone, not a lenient husband. "He shall be presented with us as part of our family… with honor." He held his wife’s gaze, intent and unwavering, waiting for her rebuttal or her compliance.
The way her face contorted showed her deep seeded criticism. The Queen still had love for her son, as she did with all of her children, but she also knew the importance of status, presentation, and one's station. Declan had forsaken his title and position. He was the Captain of the Guard, not the Prince and heir. His place was with the guard, not entering alongside them. She knew that, her husband knew that, but he refused to accept it, shunting tradition for familial bonds. If they were alone she would have argued it until he was red in the face, but regardless of how much she detested his softness, she knew better than to challenge him openly. He might lead with compassion, but there was still a sleeping bear within him, a hibernating warrior that could stir at any moment.
When she did not protest, the King turned his attention back toward the awaiting Lord. "Fetch him, then we shall be ready."
"Of course, Your Grace." Lord Dunstan bowed his head in deference, silently pleased with the King’s decision, hiding his smirk, and silencing a chuckle that wanted to burst free. He vanished beyond the door, following orders not only without complaint, but with a pride he could not vocalize.
The royals milled around the room, entertaining themselves. The Queen and Maeve cross referenced their extensive lists on possible suitors, comparing the benefits and setbacks to every Lord. Meanwhile the King, Dorian and Rhea stood near the window, watching the sun disappear behind Mount Briar, smiling and laughing in each other’s company.
It was several minutes before they heard the familiar clanking of metal approaching the door before it opened and in stepped Declan, fully adorned, an impressive show of strength and honor. Umber hair was pulled back from his face in a similar fashion to his brother’s, but where Dorian’s held loosely to his wildness, Declan’s was ordered, controlled. Even his beard was well maintained like anything out of place would reflect poorly upon his family. The warmth in his expression was more subtle, hidden behind the stoic seriousness of duty. Unlike earlier that day when he traveled through the Valley, he was not dressed in casual leathers, but in the notable black armor of the guard. He looked every bit a raven as they were more commonly denoted. Dark steel armor enveloped most of his body, polished, pristine and embellished with the Storvane owl across his chest. Black leather covered him where plate didn’t, oiled and cleaned for show, not for purpose. And his sword hung ready at his hip, half masked by the obsidian cloak that billowed behind him.
He stopped at a respectable distance, cupping his hands together before him as he bowed respectfully as one did before royals, not his own kin. "You called for me, Your Grace."
"Father," the King corrected him as he closed the distance and placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder, no different than he had with Dorian. Station or titles be damned, Declan was his son and would be welcomed, and treated as such until the day he died, much to the chagrin of his wife and advisors. "Your place is here with your family. You can escort Rhea, then rejoin the guard during the feast."
Declan’s shoulders eased, his smile growing to its normal warmth that mirrored his father’s note for note. "Yes, father," he conceded to his wishes, but only in private. While he cherished his father’s compassion, he did not desire to draw unnecessary attention to himself for the sake of appearances. He knew what he was and what that meant, and he’d perform his role properly around others as honor demanded. He nodded his head obediently, the Captain in him still present in his actions, even if it was less prominent in the company of his family.
He waited beside the door for Rhea, holding it open for her and her abundance of skirts. Outside of the sitting room, the roar of voices flooded up the grand staircase towards them. While they couldn’t see the gathering of Lords and Ladies awaiting their arrival, it sounded substantial based on the cacophony alone. She couldn’t discern the voices or make out what anyone was saying, but it was enough that it gave her pause as her heart immediately jumped into her throat. Her steps slowed as she approached her brother, fighting the urge to sneak toward the edge and steal a glance.
The soft spot Declan had for her was apparent in the warmth behind his eyes and the way his smile softened and became more reassuring as he held out his arm for her. She stepped up beside him, curving her hand beneath his forearm and lightly grasping the cold metal of his gauntlet. His other hand gently rested on top of hers in a kind gesture to show her that she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t much, but she would always have him no matter what she chose, if it was braving a staircase and a hall full of nobles, or trying to run away a second time, he’d be there. Her tension quickly became apparent in the way her fingers tightened around his arm and how her eyes kept darting toward the edge of the stairs. In an attempt to distract her, he dipped his head down beside hers and whispered, "That is an… interesting gown."
Rhea snorted followed by a laugh that eased the tightness across her shoulders. It was soft and wary, but forced her to breathe. She pried her eyes from the edge of stone that was the only thing that separated her from the mass of nobles down below, and looked up at him. Declan’s smile was playful but also sympathetic in that frustrating way when he always knew what she needed… Not necessarily what she wanted. "Mother’s doing," she replied as she pinched the ivory fabric between her fingers and made a show of waving it slightly.
"It is very…" his voice trailed off as he studied the skirts that pressed against the side of his leg. "White." Overall the gown seemed like it was made for someone half Rhea’s age. Sure, Declan didn’t know much about fashion, but comparing it to what Maeve and their mother wore, it did seem… intentional. He wouldn’t argue against the more modest neckline, but he was having a difficult time parsing if their mother wanted her to look so pure that it bordered on childish or if she wanted Rhea to find a husband. It almost felt like she was intentionally crippling her to give Maeve a better chance.
He cleared his throat and met her gaze with a sympathetic smile. "Your beauty can’t be dampened by a dress. A worthy man will notice that."
Rhea rolled her eyes, but even she couldn’t hide the subtle curvature that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her brother was a romantic and his words warmed her heart, but she was more realistic than that. This was not about love, but a trade, the hand of a Princess for an escape. She didn’t have the luxury of holding out hope for a worthy man, but she did not have the heart to tell her brother otherwise. "Just… don’t let me trip on these ridiculous skirts." Her smile creased her eyes as she secured her hold on his arm, leaning on his support and strength to guide her to the bottom without making an embarrassment out of herself.
"Yes, of course… Your Grace," Declan teased, bowing his head dramatically for good measure.
Her jaw dropped, shock and deviousness twisting across her face as she went to hit him. Lord Dunstan stepped up beside them just as she smacked the back of her hand against Declan’s chest and immediately regretted it, forgetting he was wearing armor. Rhea drew in a sharp breath, her face scrunching as pain tingled along her fingers. "Ow." Her brows furrowed as she shook her hand, trying to wrest the discomfort away.
"Are you hurt, Princess?" Lord Dunstan asked, his words were tinged with a physician’s concern, but it did not mask the amused smile of a man accustomed to treating years of sibling induced injuries.
"No," she replied with a grimace and sidelong glance toward Declan, who was doing his best to refrain from laughing.
Dunstan reached out and took her hand in his, studying her fingers for a moment before releasing his hold. "I believe you will survive. But do try to avoid injuries for one night." Peppered brows rose in a silent challenge, as if the man knew better than to expect her or her brothers to behave for more than an evening at best. He was far too old and too wise to expect anything more. While the young Storvanes might be adults, he was fully aware of their childlike tendencies when they were left unsupervised, especially together. Dorian had more visits to his infirmary than the rest of his siblings combined.
"Yes, Uncle." Rhea sighed softly before nudging her brother with her shoulder, a far safer approach, although he didn’t budge. Not an inch. He just chuckled and looked down at her with a guilty grin.
"When you are ready, Princess," their Uncle offered as he waited, patient and composed for her signal. Once she nodded, he started down the stairs and descended into the hall.
Time crawled painfully slow as they waited for him to reach the opposite side of the hall and announce their names. Each second that passed, Rhea’s nerves churned in her stomach. She was thankful she hadn’t eaten prior, convinced she might have been sick if a shred of food rested on her stomach. "It is unfair that I have to go first," she grumbled as she adjusted her hold on her brother’s arm. "I hate being the center of attention."
"As do I. We can suffer together?" Declan offered as his free hand idly adjusted his armor and leathers.
"... Very well." She nodded just once, short and curt, as her heart hammered furiously on the inside of her ribs.
"Presenting Princess Rhea Storvane…" Hearing her name pulled a startled gasp from her lips as her attention snapped toward the edge of the stairs and the silence that was heavier than the murmur of voices that had filled the room a moment earlier. When Rhea’s feet refused to move, Declan guided them forward toward the edge of the grand staircase. Before them the Great Hall stretched out like a nightmare as countless unfamiliar faces stared up at them like a spectacle. Her hold on his arm tightened to the point her knuckles paled and she was convinced the steel would bend to her will. She held onto him like an anchor to keep herself from drowning in a sea of fabric and nobles as they took the first step. "Escorted by the King’s first born son and the Captain of the King’s Guard, Declan Storvane."
Neither of them spoke as they descended the stairs, focused on grace, balance, and for the love of the Gods not tripping on those damn skirts. While Declan’s face was stoic but relaxed with the comfort of a man who had made this walk countless times before, Rhea’s face was pale as snow and red as a bramble poppy all at once. She kept her head high as their mother had taught them, but her gaze was locked on the stairs extending before her, counting and pacing each step carefully.
When their feet met the flat unchanging floor of the Great Hall, Declan turned his head just a fraction toward her as he whispered, "You could try to look happy."
Rhea had been trying to force a smile, but it was all tight lips and hollow eyes. She looked frightened or in pain, nothing even close to resembling happiness or even acceptance. "I can’t breathe, I keep tripping on these damn skirts, and I’m being forced to marry…" she replied through gritted teeth and an empty smile. "Would you be happy?"
"Oh, yes. Of course." Declan nodded his head. "Best we just kill ourselves then. I hear throwing yourself from the tower is nice this time of year." They both managed to remain composed until they were halfway to the throne, then with one sidelong glance their poise crumbled. A burst of laughter, bright and unbidden slipped out between them. Declan was able to hold himself together, mostly, but one fit of laughter undid Rhea entirely. Her tension faded as her smile grew, curving up into her small dimples and sparkling behind her eyes. She quickly covered her mouth, hoping to muffle the sound even if the giggles still tickled behind her sternum and made tears glisten along her lashes. While she could feel the eyes of everyone on her and hear her mother’s stern words screaming in her head, for that fleeting moment she didn’t care. She was thankful for her brother’s humor and comfort when the bars of her prison felt like they were closing in around her.
Once their feet found the first step of the dais, their Uncle’s voice filled the hall a second time, loud and demanding attention. "Princess Maeve Storvane escorted by the Prince and the Heir to the Ninefold, Dorian Storvane." The next pair of Storvanes descended the stairs elegant, poised… and perfect, just as Maeve wanted. She kept her chin high, eyes forward without ever missing a step—she may, or may not, have practiced descending the stairs dozens of times for this exact moment. While she was focused on presenting herself as everything her mother taught her to be, Dorian walked—no, strode across the hall with an effortless charm. He didn’t look forward, but scanned the crowd, making eye contact with every young and beautiful Lord and Lady brazen enough to meet his gaze.
Then, finally… "All hail Rowan Storvane." The King and Queen emerged like regal paragons. They started down the grand staircase with a learned grace from years of practice. "The People’s King, Sunderer of Thrones, the Scion of Stonefallow, and the Iron Shield of the Ninefold. Alongside his wife and Queen Valenya Storvane, formerly of House Dorneth of the Phorian Coast." They were two sides of the same coin, summer and winter, day and night. The King was warmth and compassion, everything the common people wanted from their ruler. Someone with a kind heart and understanding. While the Queen was ruthless and cold, she was the necessary evil of power, the blade that cut away rot before it could spread. While they walked in unison, as a partnership, there was an invisible divide none could see, but they felt it as they stepped arm in arm.
They glided up onto the dais, taking their place between their children. The King in the middle, the Queen to his right, heir to his left, Maeve beside her mother, Rhea beside Dorian, and Declan resuming his place off to the side, a watchful guardian, out of sight and out of mind. King Rowan stepped forward, holding up his hand in greeting and in a silent bidding for everyone’s attention.
"I feel like a doll," Rhea huffed as she adjusted the skirts… again. Gods they were so heavy. If she had the misfortune of falling into water she was almost certain she’d sink straight to the bottom like an anchor. Perhaps that was her mother’s goal, a metaphorical shackle to keep her still, weighed down by burden and expectations to behave. As if she had done anything but behave over the past two years. "And not even a cute one," she added with a scoff and a dramatic kick from beneath the skirts that barely caused a ripple through the sea of fabric.
"I look like one of those haunting porcelain faced dolls Maeve had." They were the type of dolls that were hard and cold, painted for display, too fragile to be cherished. They weren’t made to be enjoyed or shown love, but appreciated from afar… Trophies not playthings. That’s all Princesses were… prizes to whomever could pay the highest price. That was what Maeve wanted, not to just be a trophy, but the trophy, a beautiful porcelain doll on display like a rare gem everyone wanted but only one possessed. But that wasn’t Rhea, she didn’t want to be made of glass but cloth, worn and weathered, not fragile but malleable. Every popped seam, tear or stain would be a memory of being loved and treasured. She didn’t want to be out of reach on a shelf, but embraced. This gown… this charade, it wasn’t her. She was made of cotton, not clay.
"It is only for the night, Princess." Coren’s voice was gentle and reassuring like a hand upon her shoulder. It cut through echoes of ruffling fabric that pooled around her feet and the rhythmic clinking of his dark plate armor. He followed in pace behind her, ever watchful and present, even when she forgot she wasn’t alone and complained into the dense humid air because… It was the only thing within her power that she could do.
Rhea spun around to face him, the length of her skirts spinning outward with the momentum, extending so far they brushed his knees. "Until the tourney," she contradicted, holding out a single finger as if counting. "Or the Day of the Gods—" another finger shot up "—Or any other celebration my mother chooses to throw." With the third finger raised, she wiggled them before Coren until tripping on the abundance of fabric forced her to turn back around with a huff. How would she make it through an evening of dancing without falling on her face? She hadn’t a clue. "Perhaps I’ll be fortunate and catch no one’s eye, then I can dress as I please."
Coren’s brows rose like a silent challenge, as if he knew the conclusions she’d come to a second faster than she did. "Is that what you wish?"
She paused a few feet from the door, letting her head tip backwards with an exasperated sigh. "... No" Rhea needed a husband to get out of the Black Citadel and as far away from her mother as possible. She had love once and lost it. As unlikely as that was in the first place, she knew it was impossible to find it a second time. It was no longer about love, but an escape. Her fabric doll dreams died with Gareth, buried away with that last thread. All that was left was a porcelain face painted beneath her mother’s scrutiny, sewn in place over the remnants of what was. "Stop being so wise. You make it difficult for me to complain to you." A smile, forlorn but earnest, dipped into her cheeks in an attempt to match the levity of her tone.
"Apologies, Your Grace." Coren chuckled, just once, fleeting but warm as he approached the door at the end of the hall and took the handle in his hand. "I shall be in the Great Hall if you need me, Princess." He bowed before pulling open the door, revealing the quaint sitting room and her sister, poised and punctual, a trophy ready for the victor.
Maeve was on the far side of the room, standing before a mirror of polished silver as she fussed over her appearance. To Rhea’s eyes, her sister was the definition of what perfection strove to be. Her gowns were always immaculate, posture straight as a pin, hair a silken nest of crimson braids with her face painted like the very dolls she desired to be. Where Rhea’s dress was a curtain of ivory, almost childlike in its innocence, Maeve was dressed as a woman should be, pristine in every way that mattered, a Goddess personified for the Lords to feast their eyes upon. There was no way she could compete with her sister, the rose of Thornvale. She was everything a Princess was supposed to be. It was no wonder her mother always compared them, always wished more of her as she lived in her sister’s shadow. How could she ever compare?
"Sister," Rhea spoke up as the door shut behind her, dipping into a courtesy that wasn’t quite right but she knew her sister would expect it all the same, just as their mother would. "You look lovely," she added with a warm smile, like an olive branch of sisterly compassion extended over a ravine of differences.
Maeve’s hands were running along the rich silks of her skirts, willing any wrinkles from taking up residence when she heard her sister enter the room. She froze, head perking like a curious animal surprised to be met with her sister being almost punctual. With a raised brow and a scrutinizing gaze, her attention swept over Rhea’s ensemble as she lingered on the other side of the room. It was a blatant show of white purity, tight and conforming in the ways she knew were more like a prison rather than a show of familial solidarity. Delicate fingers tugged on the hem of her corset as if it was a hair askew, then pressed her palm against her abdomen like a practiced measure in breath control and aplomb.
"Did mother dress you?" she asked. Her hands continued to preen and press her gown just so, as if her own adjustments could somehow will her sister to do the same. Maeve’s gaze narrowed as she noticed the misalignment of Rhea’s skirts, the way her tiara tilted a bit more to the left, and how her corset could have been tighter… much tighter. Her sister’s hair was not perfectly pinned, but fell free in loose ringlets along her shoulders, a testament to their stark differences. One sister the image of grace and poise, everything in place where it should be, while the other was wild, untamed, looking formality in the face with a laugh.
Rhea’s shoulders, which were hopefully raised, slumped as the olive branch was snapped in two and fell into the chasm between them. She didn’t answer the question. There was no point when her sister already knew the answer and merely sought to widen the divide between them. Her own hand pressed against her stomach, but where Maeve’s was a habit of control, Rhea’s touch was like a claw desperate to rip the fabric from her body, if only to be able to breathe. "Have they all arrived?" she asked, redirecting the conversation as she crossed the room toward the large windows that looked out over the valley. She grabbed handfuls of fabric, lifting her skirts just high enough so she could kneel on the window seat without choking herself in the process.
Maeve watched with disdain, unable to withhold the sharp breath drawn from her at the thought of wrinkled silks. The sight alone was enough to make her smooth out her own gown, obsessive in her own perfection. "I have not been counting," she answered, curt in her passiveness… Also a lie. She did not look out the window or gawk, but had been listening to the creeks of approaching carriages, the procession of steps, and voices echoing up from the hall below. "Get away from there," she snapped, motioning her sister away from the window. "What if someone sees you?"
"What if they do?" Rhea sank onto the bench, unbothered by her sister's concerns or by her knees pressing into the wood through the thin cushion as she leaned forward at the site of a carriage crossing the bridge toward the entrance. "They all will know us soon enough." She watched curiously, as if it was a game to try and piece together which house was hidden beneath the shadows of the setting sun. They flew no colors, nor did their approach have much showmanship like she’d imagine from most of the houses. She assumed the entirety of the family would have ridden in the carriage until she caught sight of a black steed with a young man seated atop it. He was dressed in finery nearly as dark as the horse beneath him, likely decorated in colors and sigils of his house, but she couldn’t make it out from where she sat. He carried himself with the same air as her sister, chin held high with a posture of purpose, more erect and confident in his presence than anything Rhea ever did. Whomever he was, she was certain he and Maeve would make a good match. They could stand around their hold like statues, looking down their noses at those beneath them. "I think I found your future husband," she mused with a quiet chuckle.
While intrigue tugged at Maeve like an invisible thread, drawing her toward the window to peek and see if she could place a name to the face, she did not move. She knew her sister was baiting her to go look or show a childlike interest, but she knew better… She was better than naive curiosity. "He very well could be," she replied plainly. "I imagine our tastes differ quite substantially. If he doesn’t appeal to you then I imagine we’d be a smart match."
"Well, there are certainly similarities."
"Like what? Elegance?"
"... Rigidity," Rhea answered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as she kept her amusement hidden between herself and the pane of glass before her.
Maeve snorted and rolled her eyes. "You mean poise," she corrected as if the mere concept of being seen as rigid was deplorable and absolutely false.
Rhea shook her head and rolled her eyes, disregarding her sister’s comment as she leaned forward and rested her hands against the window’s frame. She watched as the carriage, mounted Lord, and their retinue entered the gates, coming to a halt in the stone courtyard outside the Citadel. They were all cast in heavy shadows, haloed by the golden glow of eventide like an omen of the months to come… Whether for good or ill, she did not know. The way the darkness clung to the man, even in the warmth of the setting sun and the flickering light of the braziers, filled her with a foreboding sense of dread that constricted around her lungs tighter than the corset already entrapping her.
He dismounted with the effortless ease of a man who found riding a horse to be an extension of himself, something Rhea often saw amongst warriors, not nobles. Another point for Maeve. She knew her sister valued strength, real and tangible, not through words—she had that part covered—but through muscles, presence, and purpose. He wore a blade at his hip as if a show of power or readiness, perhaps both. It could have been ornamental or ceremonial, but something about the way the Lord carried himself said he knew how to wield it with brutal efficiency. She might not be privy to her sister’s ‘list’, but if this man was not at the top, then he rightfully should be. Afterall, Maeve didn’t want love or compassion, she wanted protection, power, and—
There was a shift. It was subtle, missable by most who saw horses as tools. He did not turn from his dark steed but toward it, placing a hand upon the creature’s neck not in dominance but companionship. It wasn’t a stroke, but the grounding comfort of a presence. An act so human that it almost felt foreign in comparison to the way he carried himself. Rhea watched as the horse leaned into the touch, a sign of quiet respect and understanding. The Lord’s sharp edges softened in a way only she would notice. Not all cold. Good. Her and Maeve might not see eye to eye on many things, but she did not wish a life of misery upon her sister. A man capable of kindness towards creatures was capable of compassion, something her sister solely needed, even if she did not see it herself.
The creak of the carriage door drew his attention and hers alike. Rhea watched the first Lady take his arm and exit. A woman with hair as red as a fox, adorned in a gown of rich crimson and ivory. She was followed by another, younger woman, similar in every way down to the colors of their garments. Red and white. Rhea did not familiarize herself with the various houses and their sigils like Maeve. She knew enough to recognize they were house colors, similar to how their mother had them dressed in navy, ivory and silver. It was a show of family, unity and power.
Rhea tried to think back to her childhood education, recalling banners of red and white adorned in… A wolf? A lion?... No. A bear. The moment the realization struck, the two final Lords stepped out. The elder emerged austere and fierce, demanding respect through the scrutiny of his gaze and was followed by a familiar mess of red curls—Emil. Rhea paled, drawing in a sharp breath and pulled away from the window like the glass had burned her. She knew she couldn’t avoid him or the consequences of her actions forever, but there was a part of her that had hoped the insult of her insolence would have frightened him away. But there was no escaping it now, not when her mother knew and she had to face him in court.
"What?" Maeve asked, masquerading her piqued curiosity as feigned concern.
The click of the door unlatching and swinging open sliced through the tension of the room and pulled the girls’ attention toward the entrance. In strode Dorian, always tardy and always disheveled. He wore an ivory tunic embroidered in gold and silver with his navy coat draped over his arm and an ornate belt clutched in his hand. His brown locks fell in wild ringlets, still a bit damp, as they brushed the tops of his shoulders. He was no more pleased to be there than Rhea looked: uncomfortable, out of place, and like someone just walked over her grave. But nevertheless, he flashed them both a warm smile, pleased at their presence, knowing he wouldn’t suffer through it all alone, if nothing else.
"Evening, sisters," he said with his usual jovial tone—loud, warm, and laced with honey—contradicting his otherwise chaotic presence.
One of Rhea’s legs slipped from the window seat, followed by the other as she turned from the spectacle and stood up. She gave her brother a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before turning her attention toward Maeve. "It is House Járnbjørn," she answered the question indirectly, offering up her conclusions without bringing attention to her inner turmoil that left her uneasy and on edge.
"And how would you know that?" Maeve’s words came out sharp, almost insulting in the insinuation that Rhea was too oblivious, ignorant or stupid to know which house was which from a glance. There was one way and one way only that she knew the Járnbjørns apart from the rest. Another dark mark against the Storvane name—against her—because of the ignorance of her siblings.
"Don’t play coy," Rhea snapped, in no mood to trade thinly veiled insults or play into her sister’s mind games.
Dorian’s brows furrowed, glancing back and forth between them as he pulled on his navy velvet jacket and shrugged it into place upon his shoulders. Whenever his sister’s got like that he always struggled to follow. It wasn’t that he was dense, but he never mastered the silent language of sharp glances and hidden barbs that women were so fluent in. He found women, especially nobles, could carry entire conversations layered with meaning without ever speaking a word. He was just… too simple for that.
"What are you two conspiring about?" he interjected with a weary laugh, not wishing to feel excluded from the conversation but, more importantly, wanting to keep his sisters from arguing when they were minutes from being put on display before the most influential people in the kingdom. Dorian paused, cocking his head to the side, caught off guard by his own thoughts and concerns that almost aligned with what a Prince and heir should be concerned about. He snorted and shook his head. Declan must have hit him too hard and knocked some sense into him… Nothing some wine couldn’t fix.
"Nothing," Rhea replied, turning her attention toward him with her arms crossed lightly over her chest. Her thumb idly rubbed along her arm beneath the hem of her sleeve, saving herself from the incessant itching of the sheer fabric for a moment. "Maeve is playing chess and I, checkers." She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes in that resigned way a sibling accepted their torment.
"I never had a mind for chess," Dorian chuckled as he grabbed his ornate belt and wrapped it around his waist. It all started well enough, but the buckle proved to either be a new design or maybe he never fastened his own belts before? No, that would be nonsense. Of course he could dress himself… Right? His face contorted, gaze fixated on a small bit of embroidery on the seat in front of him. He could certainly recall undressing people plenty of times—and them undressing him—but he honest to the Gods could not remember if he ever dealt with belts. "When did buckles become so complicated?"
"And yet, you are heir," Maeve scoffed with a shake of her head as she turned her attention back towards the polished silver. Not only was he a lost cause when it came to dressing himself, but he lacked the mental fortitude for chess… A game based around the politics of war. That wasn’t a terrible omen for the future of Aethoria or anything. Her hands ran along the bodice of her dress as she stared at the reflection of blue fabric beneath her fingers. If she were but a man this never would happen. Declan was mad for stepping down and now the entirety of the Ninefold would suffer the consequences. She didn’t know what she wanted more, for her brother to step up and be the heir the kingdom needed… Or a husband with a conqueror’s mind and a warrior’s blade.
Rhea smiled, patient and warm as she crossed the room to her brother. Delicate fingers reached out, stealing the belt from his grasp. "Ignore her. I do," she mused softly for only their ears with a mischievous smile and a glint behind her eyes. One hand held the belt loose but steady around his waist, while her other hand straightened his tunic and jacket. When everything was as straight as possible she clasped the belt snug against his stomach and patted his chest. "There."
"Bless you." Dorian took her face in his hands. He cupped her cheeks tenderly and placed a kiss upon her forehead, dramatic with a noisy smack, but sincere in his gratitude.
She laughed softly and shook her head when his wild, unruly curls brushed her face and tickled her nose. Rhea pulled back with knitted brows and a playful sneer, then flicked one of his curls out of his face. "What is this hair?"
Dorian’s smile turned guilty and almost bashful. "I could not get it to cooperate." He pulled a small leather tie from his pocket and held it up between them, pinching it between a finger and his thumb. He slowly spun it like a silent question he already knew the answer to.
She sighed and shook her head, before reaching out and taking the small bit of leather. She could have told him no, of course, but Rhea was not the type of person to make her brother suffer through their mother’s wrath when she could help. While he used his sarcasm as armor, he often needed a gentle touch and understanding that no one gave him but her. People like their mother and Maeve often said her help was doing more harm than good, and he needed to struggle through life to find his footing, but Dorian and her were both black sheep in their own rights. It was something that connected them in ways others wouldn’t understand. In the end, he’d help her if she needed it, so she did the same… often with a huff and an eye roll, but love as well.
"You are too tall," she replied, nodding her head toward the chair beside them. "Sit." Once Dorian lowered himself onto the cushion beside her, she walked around to the back of the chair. "Here. Hold this," Rhea leaned forward, extending her arm over his shoulder so he could take the piece of leather. She then started running her fingers back through his dark hair, gently guiding the locks out of his face, being careful not to diffuse the prominent ringlets. The Storvane’s were known for their curls, especially her brothers, and while Maeve might try to tame them, Rhea found beauty in their wildness. So if the decision was hers—which it was—she intended to leave them untouched. Controlled chaos, like Dorian himself.
"Where is your valet? Should he not have handled this?" she asked as she started gathering the curls one by one.
A laugh, shrill and sardonic, cut through the quiet peace of the room as Maeve glanced over her shoulder toward them. "Did you not hear?" she mused, cocking her head as she finally stepped away from the mirror to give them her full attention. "Dorian lost another valet due to his incessant advances." Her gaze shifted from Rhea down to Dorian, a silent challenge daring him to tell her she was wrong... She never was.
Dorian sighed and started to slouch, but Rhea quickly stopped him with a "Ah ah," and a light tug against his hair.
"I would have stopped if he said he was not interested…" he grumbled, not meeting Maeve’s judgmental gaze. "I’m not a complete ass."
"And who would say no to a Prince?" Maeve asked, resting her hands on her hips in a way that was almost identical to their mother. The similarities were uncanny… The perfect posture, sharp eyes, and discerning tone. "You missed a curl."
Rhea scoffed, leaving that single dark spiral precisely where it laid along Dorian’s temple, like a subtle act of defiance. "That was intentional." With his hair held in place, she reached back over his shoulder to retrieve the piece of leather he held ready for her, then began tying back the top half of his hair, letting the remaining curls fall freely to his shoulders.
"Mother will want him perfect,"
Maeve took a step closer, reaching out with the intention to snag the stray curl, but Rhea smacked her hand away before she messed up her hard work. "But he is not perfect." Her fingers gently fastened the leather into a knot and tucked the tails beneath his hair. "Why force him to be something he’s not?" she asked as her hands fell to rest upon his shoulders and give him a reassuring squeeze. The entire Kingdom knew what Dorian was and what he was like, forcing him to be anything other than himself was more of an insult to their guests. They wouldn’t fool anyone by lying. Even Rhea was aware that her own truth would only remain hidden for so long. Secrets didn’t stay secret long in the Black Citadel… The less they had, the better.
"Perfect is—" Boring, he was going to say boring. "Far better suited for you, Maeve, than either of us." Dorian tilted his head back just enough to flash her a playful wink, to which she promptly shook her head and rolled her eyes disparagingly.
"If we are expected to marry someone beyond that door, should we not lead with authenticity?" Rhea asked with a curious tilt of her head.
"And those clothes are authentic?" Maeve rebutted as she reached out and pinched the sheer sleeve to her sister’s dress between her fingers. The gown was far more elegant than anything in Rhea’s wardrobe, perhaps a bit juvenile, but it was obvious their mother had it made from the same material as her own dress, not leaving anything to chance. And while Maeve agreed with their mother’s approach, she couldn’t help but find it comical that her siblings were preaching authenticity while being dressed and puppeted around like dolls. She supposed their rebellion and genuinity only went so far.
Dorian pushed off the chair’s armrests and stood up. "Mother always gets what she wants." He reached over, gently taking Maeve by the wrist and removing her hold. It wasn’t forceful, but had an unspoken warning. His sister might have taken after their mother and adopted more of her qualities day by day, but just because they tolerated it from their mother did not mean she got the same leniency. Sister or not, when the barbs cut too deep, familial bonds no longer mattered.
"We hold onto ourselves where we can…" Rhea filled the silence, far more warm and patient than her brother. "Be that a loose curl or a bit of frayed thread." Her hands fell to rest upon the top of the chair, tapping the carved wooden frame that hugged the embroidered cushion. Unlike Dorian, she had grown so accustomed to their mother’s wrath that Maeve’s sharp comments were little more than an irritant, like bugs biting at her ankles on a humid day. It may have been naive, but she believed her sister still had love for them like she did as a child, even if it was buried beneath the burden of duty and nobility.
Dorian placed a hand upon her shoulder, reassuring in its warmth and tenderness. They shared a glance that spoke truths too fragile to say out loud, a silent understanding behind a piece of thread, their failures, and a prison they both shared.
Maeve’s gaze fell to Rhea’s left hand, noting the small indentation where the thread once lived, pale but bare. So… She had done it. She didn’t know if she should be impressed at her sister’s resilience, relieved that there was one more black mark against their family buried, or infuriated that it took Rhea years to be obedient, far past the point of redemption when the damage was already done. "Are you both so daft to think your actions do not also reflect upon me?" she snapped, words frayed at the end like her patience and that damn forgotten piece of thread her sister had clung onto for far too long.
"Do not fret, dear sister." Dorian’s words were laced with exaggerated sarcasm as he gently patted her shoulder while walking past. "You have more perfection in your little finger than Rhea and I do together." He stopped in front of the mirror to check Rhea’s work, lips curving downward into a half-impressed smile at the sight of himself staring back at him. For once he looked like a Prince… and a piece of himself still existed beneath the finery.
"Our inadequacies shall bolster your image. Your pool of suitors will be plentiful, where I shall survive off the remnants," Rhea mused, her words sounding more like poetry and less like reassurances, but even behind her thinly veiled jest, there was also truth. "I promise I will not get in your way." Her words fell softer, with a grave sincerity that she rarely revealed to her sister. The last thing she wanted was to stand in Maeve's way of happiness, but she was also pragmatic and knew that her sister had more to offer a man than she ever could. There was no contest, and strangely enough, she was not bothered by that.
The confession caught Maeve off guard. There was some semblance of gratitude… somewhere, but rather than respond with warmth or recognition or—Gods forbid—compassion, she gave a curt nod accented with her usual sharp edged words. "Good. You had your chance and squandered it. This is my opportunity."
Rhea wasn’t able to withhold the scoff that cut through the room, severing the small tether of understanding between them. She said nothing, didn’t take the bait or slip back into a match of barbs and wit. She simply pushed off the chair and walked back over to the window, preferring to watch the sunset or more Lords arriving than be near her incorrigible sister.
"Well, actually—" Dorian started, prepared to meet their sister’s attitude where she left it, with the truth… That this was more about him than it ever was about her. Really knock her off her high horse, if only for a moment. But the door creaked and opened, halting whatever argument was likely to brew.
Stepping into the room was the Queen, their mother, adorned in an ornate gown of ivory and navy blue that matched her daughters with a mature, timeless elegance that heightened her beauty, demanding respect and awe. Her dark hair was pin straight, cascading down her back and topped with an elaborate silver tiara encrusted with sparkling diamonds and sapphires. She carried herself with a powerful grace, expecting the world to bow and yield at her feet like it was she, not her husband, who had the Ninefold at her fingertips.
Following behind her with a hand leisurely resting upon the small of her back and a gait that wasn’t molded by nobility but by the labor of his back and sweat of his brow, was the King, their father. He may have looked the part, dressed in blue velvet, golden brocade and ivory, but he carried himself like any other man, a father and a warrior, with the weight of the world slowing his stride but not dimming his smile. Where the Queen was cold and hard like metal in the moonlight, he was warm and effervescent like the sunlight reflected off the Weave.
He walked in with a smile upon his face, a light behind his eyes and his arms extending toward his children as his true source of happiness. "Ah, my beautiful family."
The King made his way toward Dorian first, grinning nearly ear to ear as he clapped his son on the shoulders. It was not a hug, but an embrace man to man, strong and reassuring through the firm comfort of his fingers that resonated through the young man. He then moved to Maeve, cupping her face as if she was made of the most delicate crystal, placing a loving kiss upon her forehead, a warmth that was a stark contrast to the woman receiving it. Lastly, Rhea, who closed the distance to him before he had a chance to come to her and wrapped her arms around him tight like a child hugging their parent without a care for decorum, just wanting the comfort of her father. A jovial laugh rumbled in his chest where she rested her cheek and his arms curled around her, tight and affectionate. His hand cradled the back of her head as his kiss was lost in the ripples of crimson curls.
The Queen followed behind, rectifying every imperfection as she passed. She adjusted Dorian’s belt and tunic before tucking the loose curl back behind his ear, only for it to immediately slip free in defiance. Then she moved to Rhea, waiting for the embrace to cease so she could size up her appearance with a scrutiny reserved only for her. She centered the tiara upon her daughter’s head, calmed wild hairs that tried to break free, and tugged on the hem of the corset, shifting how it laid. "Could be tighter, but there is no time to re-lace it. Unfortunate." She sighed, disapprovingly, before her attention shifted toward Maeve and… she smiled.
It was a sight so genuine, so rare, that Dorian and Rhea exchanged brief glances of disbelief at the open display. They watched, silent with the unspoken weight of longing for a piece of that warmth to be for them. Had they ever made their mother smile like that, even as children? Neither of them could recall. Any memories of happiness or warmth were replaced with heavy expectations, harsh criticisms, and sharp words that cut deep and festered. Neither one of them could watch, turning their gazes towards each other, their father, the window… anything.
"Well… it will suffice. At least Maeve understands the gravity of this moment." The Queen did not adjust or fix a single piece of Maeve. Her pride and joy was nothing short of elegant perfection, a vision of herself as a younger woman looking back at her. While the desire to embrace was there, the women only clasped hands, not wanting to risk dishevelling their appearances in any way. Affection could wait until the night was over, when they join in shared celebration of the unions to come. They were patient. They could wait.
"Come now, my love," the King protested as an arm hooked around Dorian’s shoulders, pulling him close before doing the same with Rhea. His actions spoke louder than words, a quiet recognition of his wife’s favoritism. Where her love fell short, he filled in the gaps with his radiant warmth and compassion. "No one will be able to hold a flame to our children—" His smile broke, brows tensing as his gaze searched the room for an absence that stole the light and left the gathering feeling empty. "Where is Declan?"
The door on the opposite side of the room opened, letting in a flood of voices that echoed up the grand staircase. Lord Dunstan Farraday entered, dressed in his finest scholarly robes saved for such occasions. He was a pillar of slate and steel. The shimmering gray satin exuded elegance against the grounding simplicity of his pewter wool overcoat. A soft rustling of fabric contrasted the metallic jingle of his chains followed him as he entered the room and bowed. "Your Grace, all of the Lords have gathered in the Great Hall and are ready for your arrival."
"Where is Declan?" The King asked a second time, knowing his Uncle would have the answer where the rest of his family did not.
"He is in the Hall with the rest of the guard."
"Send for him."
The Queen spoke up, her voice filling the small room with her impatient and sharp edged tone. "My love, I do not believe—"
"Prince or not, Declan is a Storvane and my son," the King interjected, not in the mood to humor her arguments or disapproval. His voice had lost its warmth and casual lilt for something more serious and commanding, a King’s tone, not a lenient husband. "He shall be presented with us as part of our family… with honor." He held his wife’s gaze, intent and unwavering, waiting for her rebuttal or her compliance.
The way her face contorted showed her deep seeded criticism. The Queen still had love for her son, as she did with all of her children, but she also knew the importance of status, presentation, and one's station. Declan had forsaken his title and position. He was the Captain of the Guard, not the Prince and heir. His place was with the guard, not entering alongside them. She knew that, her husband knew that, but he refused to accept it, shunting tradition for familial bonds. If they were alone she would have argued it until he was red in the face, but regardless of how much she detested his softness, she knew better than to challenge him openly. He might lead with compassion, but there was still a sleeping bear within him, a hibernating warrior that could stir at any moment.
When she did not protest, the King turned his attention back toward the awaiting Lord. "Fetch him, then we shall be ready."
"Of course, Your Grace." Lord Dunstan bowed his head in deference, silently pleased with the King’s decision, hiding his smirk, and silencing a chuckle that wanted to burst free. He vanished beyond the door, following orders not only without complaint, but with a pride he could not vocalize.
The royals milled around the room, entertaining themselves. The Queen and Maeve cross referenced their extensive lists on possible suitors, comparing the benefits and setbacks to every Lord. Meanwhile the King, Dorian and Rhea stood near the window, watching the sun disappear behind Mount Briar, smiling and laughing in each other’s company.
It was several minutes before they heard the familiar clanking of metal approaching the door before it opened and in stepped Declan, fully adorned, an impressive show of strength and honor. Umber hair was pulled back from his face in a similar fashion to his brother’s, but where Dorian’s held loosely to his wildness, Declan’s was ordered, controlled. Even his beard was well maintained like anything out of place would reflect poorly upon his family. The warmth in his expression was more subtle, hidden behind the stoic seriousness of duty. Unlike earlier that day when he traveled through the Valley, he was not dressed in casual leathers, but in the notable black armor of the guard. He looked every bit a raven as they were more commonly denoted. Dark steel armor enveloped most of his body, polished, pristine and embellished with the Storvane owl across his chest. Black leather covered him where plate didn’t, oiled and cleaned for show, not for purpose. And his sword hung ready at his hip, half masked by the obsidian cloak that billowed behind him.
He stopped at a respectable distance, cupping his hands together before him as he bowed respectfully as one did before royals, not his own kin. "You called for me, Your Grace."
"Father," the King corrected him as he closed the distance and placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder, no different than he had with Dorian. Station or titles be damned, Declan was his son and would be welcomed, and treated as such until the day he died, much to the chagrin of his wife and advisors. "Your place is here with your family. You can escort Rhea, then rejoin the guard during the feast."
Declan’s shoulders eased, his smile growing to its normal warmth that mirrored his father’s note for note. "Yes, father," he conceded to his wishes, but only in private. While he cherished his father’s compassion, he did not desire to draw unnecessary attention to himself for the sake of appearances. He knew what he was and what that meant, and he’d perform his role properly around others as honor demanded. He nodded his head obediently, the Captain in him still present in his actions, even if it was less prominent in the company of his family.
He waited beside the door for Rhea, holding it open for her and her abundance of skirts. Outside of the sitting room, the roar of voices flooded up the grand staircase towards them. While they couldn’t see the gathering of Lords and Ladies awaiting their arrival, it sounded substantial based on the cacophony alone. She couldn’t discern the voices or make out what anyone was saying, but it was enough that it gave her pause as her heart immediately jumped into her throat. Her steps slowed as she approached her brother, fighting the urge to sneak toward the edge and steal a glance.
The soft spot Declan had for her was apparent in the warmth behind his eyes and the way his smile softened and became more reassuring as he held out his arm for her. She stepped up beside him, curving her hand beneath his forearm and lightly grasping the cold metal of his gauntlet. His other hand gently rested on top of hers in a kind gesture to show her that she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t much, but she would always have him no matter what she chose, if it was braving a staircase and a hall full of nobles, or trying to run away a second time, he’d be there. Her tension quickly became apparent in the way her fingers tightened around his arm and how her eyes kept darting toward the edge of the stairs. In an attempt to distract her, he dipped his head down beside hers and whispered, "That is an… interesting gown."
Rhea snorted followed by a laugh that eased the tightness across her shoulders. It was soft and wary, but forced her to breathe. She pried her eyes from the edge of stone that was the only thing that separated her from the mass of nobles down below, and looked up at him. Declan’s smile was playful but also sympathetic in that frustrating way when he always knew what she needed… Not necessarily what she wanted. "Mother’s doing," she replied as she pinched the ivory fabric between her fingers and made a show of waving it slightly.
"It is very…" his voice trailed off as he studied the skirts that pressed against the side of his leg. "White." Overall the gown seemed like it was made for someone half Rhea’s age. Sure, Declan didn’t know much about fashion, but comparing it to what Maeve and their mother wore, it did seem… intentional. He wouldn’t argue against the more modest neckline, but he was having a difficult time parsing if their mother wanted her to look so pure that it bordered on childish or if she wanted Rhea to find a husband. It almost felt like she was intentionally crippling her to give Maeve a better chance.
He cleared his throat and met her gaze with a sympathetic smile. "Your beauty can’t be dampened by a dress. A worthy man will notice that."
Rhea rolled her eyes, but even she couldn’t hide the subtle curvature that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her brother was a romantic and his words warmed her heart, but she was more realistic than that. This was not about love, but a trade, the hand of a Princess for an escape. She didn’t have the luxury of holding out hope for a worthy man, but she did not have the heart to tell her brother otherwise. "Just… don’t let me trip on these ridiculous skirts." Her smile creased her eyes as she secured her hold on his arm, leaning on his support and strength to guide her to the bottom without making an embarrassment out of herself.
"Yes, of course… Your Grace," Declan teased, bowing his head dramatically for good measure.
Her jaw dropped, shock and deviousness twisting across her face as she went to hit him. Lord Dunstan stepped up beside them just as she smacked the back of her hand against Declan’s chest and immediately regretted it, forgetting he was wearing armor. Rhea drew in a sharp breath, her face scrunching as pain tingled along her fingers. "Ow." Her brows furrowed as she shook her hand, trying to wrest the discomfort away.
"Are you hurt, Princess?" Lord Dunstan asked, his words were tinged with a physician’s concern, but it did not mask the amused smile of a man accustomed to treating years of sibling induced injuries.
"No," she replied with a grimace and sidelong glance toward Declan, who was doing his best to refrain from laughing.
Dunstan reached out and took her hand in his, studying her fingers for a moment before releasing his hold. "I believe you will survive. But do try to avoid injuries for one night." Peppered brows rose in a silent challenge, as if the man knew better than to expect her or her brothers to behave for more than an evening at best. He was far too old and too wise to expect anything more. While the young Storvanes might be adults, he was fully aware of their childlike tendencies when they were left unsupervised, especially together. Dorian had more visits to his infirmary than the rest of his siblings combined.
"Yes, Uncle." Rhea sighed softly before nudging her brother with her shoulder, a far safer approach, although he didn’t budge. Not an inch. He just chuckled and looked down at her with a guilty grin.
"When you are ready, Princess," their Uncle offered as he waited, patient and composed for her signal. Once she nodded, he started down the stairs and descended into the hall.
Time crawled painfully slow as they waited for him to reach the opposite side of the hall and announce their names. Each second that passed, Rhea’s nerves churned in her stomach. She was thankful she hadn’t eaten prior, convinced she might have been sick if a shred of food rested on her stomach. "It is unfair that I have to go first," she grumbled as she adjusted her hold on her brother’s arm. "I hate being the center of attention."
"As do I. We can suffer together?" Declan offered as his free hand idly adjusted his armor and leathers.
"... Very well." She nodded just once, short and curt, as her heart hammered furiously on the inside of her ribs.
"Presenting Princess Rhea Storvane…" Hearing her name pulled a startled gasp from her lips as her attention snapped toward the edge of the stairs and the silence that was heavier than the murmur of voices that had filled the room a moment earlier. When Rhea’s feet refused to move, Declan guided them forward toward the edge of the grand staircase. Before them the Great Hall stretched out like a nightmare as countless unfamiliar faces stared up at them like a spectacle. Her hold on his arm tightened to the point her knuckles paled and she was convinced the steel would bend to her will. She held onto him like an anchor to keep herself from drowning in a sea of fabric and nobles as they took the first step. "Escorted by the King’s first born son and the Captain of the King’s Guard, Declan Storvane."
Neither of them spoke as they descended the stairs, focused on grace, balance, and for the love of the Gods not tripping on those damn skirts. While Declan’s face was stoic but relaxed with the comfort of a man who had made this walk countless times before, Rhea’s face was pale as snow and red as a bramble poppy all at once. She kept her head high as their mother had taught them, but her gaze was locked on the stairs extending before her, counting and pacing each step carefully.
When their feet met the flat unchanging floor of the Great Hall, Declan turned his head just a fraction toward her as he whispered, "You could try to look happy."
Rhea had been trying to force a smile, but it was all tight lips and hollow eyes. She looked frightened or in pain, nothing even close to resembling happiness or even acceptance. "I can’t breathe, I keep tripping on these damn skirts, and I’m being forced to marry…" she replied through gritted teeth and an empty smile. "Would you be happy?"
"Oh, yes. Of course." Declan nodded his head. "Best we just kill ourselves then. I hear throwing yourself from the tower is nice this time of year." They both managed to remain composed until they were halfway to the throne, then with one sidelong glance their poise crumbled. A burst of laughter, bright and unbidden slipped out between them. Declan was able to hold himself together, mostly, but one fit of laughter undid Rhea entirely. Her tension faded as her smile grew, curving up into her small dimples and sparkling behind her eyes. She quickly covered her mouth, hoping to muffle the sound even if the giggles still tickled behind her sternum and made tears glisten along her lashes. While she could feel the eyes of everyone on her and hear her mother’s stern words screaming in her head, for that fleeting moment she didn’t care. She was thankful for her brother’s humor and comfort when the bars of her prison felt like they were closing in around her.
Once their feet found the first step of the dais, their Uncle’s voice filled the hall a second time, loud and demanding attention. "Princess Maeve Storvane escorted by the Prince and the Heir to the Ninefold, Dorian Storvane." The next pair of Storvanes descended the stairs elegant, poised… and perfect, just as Maeve wanted. She kept her chin high, eyes forward without ever missing a step—she may, or may not, have practiced descending the stairs dozens of times for this exact moment. While she was focused on presenting herself as everything her mother taught her to be, Dorian walked—no, strode across the hall with an effortless charm. He didn’t look forward, but scanned the crowd, making eye contact with every young and beautiful Lord and Lady brazen enough to meet his gaze.
Then, finally… "All hail Rowan Storvane." The King and Queen emerged like regal paragons. They started down the grand staircase with a learned grace from years of practice. "The People’s King, Sunderer of Thrones, the Scion of Stonefallow, and the Iron Shield of the Ninefold. Alongside his wife and Queen Valenya Storvane, formerly of House Dorneth of the Phorian Coast." They were two sides of the same coin, summer and winter, day and night. The King was warmth and compassion, everything the common people wanted from their ruler. Someone with a kind heart and understanding. While the Queen was ruthless and cold, she was the necessary evil of power, the blade that cut away rot before it could spread. While they walked in unison, as a partnership, there was an invisible divide none could see, but they felt it as they stepped arm in arm.
They glided up onto the dais, taking their place between their children. The King in the middle, the Queen to his right, heir to his left, Maeve beside her mother, Rhea beside Dorian, and Declan resuming his place off to the side, a watchful guardian, out of sight and out of mind. King Rowan stepped forward, holding up his hand in greeting and in a silent bidding for everyone’s attention.
"Lord and Ladies of the Ninefold, welcome.
It has been too long since the banners of every hold flew together under one roof. Looking out at this hall, I see more than just old friends and trusted allies, I see the future of our kingdom reflected in the faces of our sons and daughters.
We have weathered tyrants, loss and seasons of plenty. But Aethoria is only as strong as the bonds that bring us together. We invited you here not merely for sport or revelry, but to ensure that those bonds endure for generations to come.
Let the following months be defined by honest conversation and new friendships. And may your time within these walls be as pleasant as it is purposeful.
The Great Hall is yours. Let us make meaningful introductions and then we feast."
It has been too long since the banners of every hold flew together under one roof. Looking out at this hall, I see more than just old friends and trusted allies, I see the future of our kingdom reflected in the faces of our sons and daughters.
We have weathered tyrants, loss and seasons of plenty. But Aethoria is only as strong as the bonds that bring us together. We invited you here not merely for sport or revelry, but to ensure that those bonds endure for generations to come.
Let the following months be defined by honest conversation and new friendships. And may your time within these walls be as pleasant as it is purposeful.
The Great Hall is yours. Let us make meaningful introductions and then we feast."
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